


Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A Rey by any other name would taste as sweet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apologies to the Bard, Blow Jobs, Breast Fucking, Breast Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, Kissing, Longing, No Pregnancy, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, PWP, Pining, Protective Ben Solo, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, instant chemistry, no pregnancy/safe to read if pregnancy is a trigger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She calls herself Ruby, but he knows it’s not her name, not even when it escapes his lips on a strangled groan, hips straining forward to breach the warm cavern of her mouth.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60
Collections: Anonymous





	Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies

**Author's Note:**

> There is a brief reference to sex work early in this fic, formed as a question. Neither Ben nor Rey are sex workers in the fic. All other tags are as above. This is pure smut with a tiny bit of setup, friends. Hope you enjoy.

She calls herself Ruby, but he knows it’s not her name. He meets her just south of the city, far past the line where the bars stop being trendy and start being sinister. Dartboards replace shiny neon signs advertising expensive craft beers. Strategized snooker games become angry rounds of pool. She sits with her back to the door, her fingers curled around a mug of some cheap American draft. She never looks up, not even when burly men place their beefy hands on her shoulders, or when greasy locals give her appraising stares with lust-filled eyes. The bartender keeps a careful watch, but he doesn’t intervene. When Ben walks in and takes a seat beside her, he garners a single warning glance.

“If you want the pleasure of my company, it’s two-fifty for the first two hours, five hundred for anything over that,” she says in lieu of greeting, and he’s so taken aback he almost gets up and walks back out the door. She remains perfectly still, thumb tracing patterns in the ruined wood of the counter.

It takes him a moment, but he recovers. “I didn’t take you for the type,” he says quickly, being sure to flash an encouraging smile. She doesn’t make the effort to see it. Her fingers tighten ever-so-slightly around her glass. 

He leans forward, studying her face as best he can from his sideways vantage point. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” he prompts.

Still, she says nothing, even as her mouth thins and presses into a tight line.

The bartender takes a few steps in their direction but does not approach further. He can see her weighing his words, testing them for truth, discarding and reforming strategy. “What do you want?” she says finally. It’s not accusation but genuine confusion that taints her voice, and when she finally turns to look at him, he feels his pulse kick-start.

She is beautiful—classically, exquisitely so—and yet that fact is not so striking as the amount of sadness in her murky eyes, the luscious curve of her downturned lips. He falters, trying to formulate something intelligent to say, and settles on the first thing that leaps into his muddled mind:

“I want to buy you a better beer. Busch sucks.”

She cracks a tiny, delicate smile. It feels like a sunbeam lighting upon his face. Tapping her slender fingers against the bar, she turns sideways to face him, her skirt riding up to expose the faintest bit of thigh. He swallows, managing just barely to drag his eyes back to her face.

“I don’t drink,” she admits. This time that tiny smile blooms and spreads, highlighting her features and transforming her face. When he arches an eyebrow, she shrugs. “It’s a lot easier to keep people away when they don’t have a reason to approach you.”

He feels his face fall but tries to keep his voice light. “Oh. Well, I’ll leave you alone, if you want.” It’s the best he can do. He’s been taught all his life to never walk away from a challenge, even when it’s wrapped in a black velvet skirt.

She pauses, sighing softly, crossing her left leg carefully over her right. The muted sound of nylons brushing together has him biting back a groan, digging his nails into his palms. “What do you want?” she says again, but this time, her words are almost sad.

It’s with the weakest of nerves that he takes her fingers in his, brushing his thumb over the creases in her palm. She allows him to touch her, watching his movements with an almost clinical detachment; a living, breathing doll.

He wonders what it would take to crack that mask. He wonders if she’ll let him try.

“Your name,” he says quietly, bringing her hand to his lips, brushing a bold, brazen kiss over the warm, scented skin. It is a gesture decidedly old-fashioned, yet oddly appropriate. When he dares to look at her, he sees the faintest trace of approval in her eyes. “Let’s start with that.”

“Ruby,” she whispers, cupping her fingers along his jaw. She feels his muscles tighten as he swallows, sees his blue eyes widen as they fall upon her lips. “My name is Ruby.”

**

She calls herself Ruby, but he knows it’s not her name, even when the weary bartender rings the cracked brass bell, and the sluggish patrons drift forward to settle their tabs. Some approach a little too closely for his liking. They lean over her shoulder, staring down her blouse under the charade of an outstretched bill.

“Don’t you have a coat?” he says abruptly. “It’s fucking January out there. You should…”

“Should what?” she counters, words clipped, eyes hard. He’s overstepped a boundary, some invisible line, and he knows it. Waving his hand dismissively, he stares at the wall, but the tension in his jaw belies his unease.

She sighs, looking at her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Thanks for the non-drink,” she says quietly. When he looks up, she takes his fingers in hers, pulling their joined hands into her lap, thumbs brushing over the skin of his palm. It’s a role reversal, disconcerting and arousing in equal measure. He can feel the heat of her body through her skirt’s thin fabric, the soft press of her touch sliding to his wrist. His eyes flutter shut. She may have refused alcohol, but he took no such precaution.

“Ruby…” he tries, but his words come out garbled and gruff.

“Take me home,” she whispers, before he can try again.

He knows he should object. He should at least offer the pretense of being gentlemanly, but he’s tired of doing what’s right, and what’s expected. Even more so, he’s tired of doing what isn’t, and having to hide it. No one knows he’s here. Not his boss. Not his family. Not even his sometimes-“roommate,” with the blonde hair that can’t be real and professions of love that are even less so.

“Okay,” he murmurs, picking up his own heavy coat, wrapping it around her shoulders despite her muffled protests. The ratty fur trim practically swallows her face, but he takes satisfaction in the way it hides her from probing, lecherous eyes. He takes her arm in his, drawing her close to his side. If she asks, if she protests, he’ll blame chivalry, the weather, anything other than the growing need to have her close. Instead, she is quiet, even when his hand slides to the small of her back.

He was never one for possession, never one to lay claim when there was so much to be sampled. Yet, it is precisely because she cannot be possessed that has him aching to hear his name on her lips. He guides her out of the bar with swift, determined strides, out into the bitter air that bites at his chin, his nose. He shivers once, and she smothers a laugh, sinking more fully into the down of his parka.

Beneath their feet, the filthy asphalt crunches, stubborn winter weeds pushing up through the numerous cracks. He can see vagrants stumbling out into the street from bars along their path, their voices loud and ominous, slurred from cheap beer and cheaper thrills. He quickens his pace, leading her swiftly down a side street to reach the safety of his car. He throws open her door and ushers her in, and when he closes his own door a moment later, the car is almost completely silent.

She listens to him breathe, sees the cool white puffs of air escaping his mouth in measured cadence. When his hand grips the gearshift, she covers it with her own. Beneath her fingers, the muscles in his hand tighten as the engine purrs to life.

**

She calls herself Ruby, but he knows it’s not her name, not even when it escapes his lips on a strangled groan, hips straining forward to breach the warm cavern of her mouth. She watches him intently, lips parted, soft blush staining her cheeks crimson as she guides him inside. His head falls back, harsh breaths hissing through his teeth as he fights to keep from coming.

“Fuck,” he swears, fists curling around handfuls of brushed cotton bed sheets. She arches an eyebrow, withdrawing him slowly, licking her lips in a manner that is equally erotic and playful. Rising to her knees, she hovers over him, allowing him to look his fill of high, round breasts topped with pert pink nipples. He can feel himself leaking onto his stomach, thin clear fluid that does nothing to quench the heat built low in his belly. He barely has time to draw a jagged breath before she’s guiding his cock into the shallow, supple crevice between her breasts.

“Ohhhhh….” He groans, back arching, muscles straining with the need to thrust, to bury deep. His eyes slam shut; only by sheer force of will is he able to bring himself back from the edge.

“Please,” he whispers weakly, drowning in her soft, warm heat. He can feel her sternum against his tip, the warm sides of her breasts slightly damp with sweat. She pulls back, stroking him in apology when he moans with the loss. Leaning forward, she traces his lips with the tip of her tongue, coaxing him into a long, wet kiss. He sighs, pleasure wicking through every muscle fiber, and tangles eager fingers in her hair.

“Let me…” he starts. He doesn’t have to finish. She goes beneath him willingly, allowing him to guide slender thighs around his hips. A blush decorates the thin skin of her throat, dips down to the crest of her collarbone. She reaches for him, but he avoids her grasp, disentangling her legs using a reserve of strength. His cock twitches in protest, but he breathes slowly through his nose, letting his fingers pinch lightly at her nipple, thumb swiping along the sensitive underside of her breast. She shivers.

He indulges in another kiss, tongue lapping at hers, teeth tugging roughly at her bottom lip, earning a shocked gasp. With his right hand, he dips between her thighs, stroking her clit with feather-light touches. It is not enough to bring her off, and he knows it.

“Harder,” she begs, but he grins instead, pulling back to study her face. His careful ministrations have eroded her composure, made her pupils dilate, her breathing falter. He increases the pressure for just a second, rubbing firmly enough to make her cry out, to make her nails sink into the thick muscle of his neck.

“No,” he says, not unkindly. “Not yet.” With a playful wink, he kisses his way down her body, pausing to let his tongue taste the sweet buds of her nipples, teeth scraping gently along her ribs. When he reaches the apex of her thighs, her entire body is trembling, keyed up and shivering and just shy of the point of release. He grins, smug smile devious, and leans down that last few inches, exhaling against her very core, hot air followed by the warm swipe of his tongue.

His name rips from her throat in an agonized sob, her hips shoving forward, seeking his touch. He sinks his fingers inside, spreading them gently to feel the way her walls grow incrementally tighter.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her aching clit, “you’re so close…almost there.” Adding his fingers, he crooks them gently, target acquired, tongue flicking quick and clever. She bursts against his mouth, seizing down and then softening, a shortened scream torn from her parted lips as she shakes and moans and _comes_.

 _Easy_ , he tells himself, _steady_. He is painfully hard, the ache deep and unassailable, but he licks her clean, capable hands guiding her down, stroking her gently as she shudders through the aftershocks.

“So gorgeous,” he murmurs, “so fucking sweet for me.” He crawls up her body, lips stained with her body’s juice. She pulls him down into a dirty kiss, conscious of the way he tenses, the way his breathing catches. Helpless, he grinds down into her hip, sleek curves forgiving, not nearly enough friction. Her thighs part again, but this time he takes the invitation, grasping himself firmly, settling the head inside.

He means to go slow, to ride it out, to make it last, but her _hotwetsqueeze_ is irresistible, and before he can draw his next breath, he’s buried to the hilt. Groaning, he grasps her hips, tilting his own so that the crest of his pelvis brushes her clit on the next pass. The effect is immediate and overpowering. She clamps down like a vise, her hands flying up to grab at his hair, tugging as he shoves himself home.

“Ohmygod,” she breathes, voice a mere whisper, “I’m gonna…”

His arms strain with effort, a thin film of sweat coats his back as he works his thighs, his ass. “Ruby,” he gasps her name, even as he feels her back arch, her breasts tight against his chest as she clutches at his shoulders. “Ruby…”

The extra friction is the last drop of water in an ocean overdrawn. Collapsing against her, he comes, every bit of friction, of frustration, of weeks of longing, draining him dry.

Later, in the cool gaze of moonlight, he stares at her face, brushing her hair away from her temple, dragging the rough surface of his thumb over her parted lips.

She opens her eyes. Searches his. When she smiles, he feels it swoop through his belly.

“Rey,” she whispers, “my name is Rey.”


End file.
